The Relative in the River
by serenissa
Summary: Whilst there was no formal identification found with the body, a diabetic tag was found around the man’s neck. The name on the tag read Joseph Booth.’
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note**

**Whilst I've appreciated reading lots of the amazing fan fic that's on here (yes, I'm one of those horrible readers that went for months without actually signing up and reviewing stuff), thisis the first time I've ever dipped my toe into actually trying to write one. Actually, it's the first time I've written something other than an academic essay in quite a number of years. So, basically, please go easy on me! This is probably going to end up quite angsty, but I got a little distracted with the set-up chapter and ended up talking about socks and philandering congressmen. Ah well. **

**Disclaimer: They're not mine, duh. If you want to sue me, you're very welcome to my student loans and overdraft. Honestly. Oh yes, and R2D2 belongs to Star Wars. Which I have somehow managed to go through 25 years of life without seeing.**

* * *

It was a pleasant enough day, thought Special Agent Seeley Booth as he struggled to wrest open his over-filled sock drawer, to merit wearing a particularly nice pair of socks.

It was a Friday, the light of the sun was streaming through the gap in the centre of his curtains, and, to top it all, the night before he'd managed to get a confession out of a suspect, thus finishing yet another case. Which meant that this particular Friday evening would involve doing paperwork with Bones over beer and a movie.

And therefore, today _definitely_ deserved a special pair of socks.

It had been an interesting case, and one that was sure to get a lot of publicity, given that it involved a married Maryland congressman who'd killed his male ex-lover after he threatened to go public about their affair. Cam had even received a phone call yesterday from some National Enquirer hack fishing for details, which, of course, she'd flatly refused to give.

Bones, unsurprisingly, not only hadn't known what the National Enquirer was, but had expressed complete mystification concerning what she had termed – or so he remembered – 'the prurient and insatiable demand of the American public for salacious stories about the lives of public figures.'

He smiled as he remembered their conversation, and how he'd teased her that the cases in her novels contained just the sort of 'salacious stories' that she claimed to be so uninterested in.

She'd – of course – denied it vehemently, maintaining that her novels were focused on the processes of forensics investigations, but he'd found himself unable to resist telling her that he knew most people read them for the sex scenes (he hadn't added, however, that he counted himself among their number).

In response to this, she'd raised her eyebrow in a way that from anyone else but Bones would definitely count as flirtatious.

'Hope and patience, Booth, hope and patience,' he muttered, repeating – as he'd often come to do - Gordon-Gordon's words to himself like a mantra. In recent months he'd come closer and closer to believing them.

He'd go over to the Jeffersonian this morning, he thought, and bring her coffee, and then tonight they would do the paperwork for the case, at his apartment, or at hers, and bicker over Thai food and beer. And he wouldn't tell her he loved her, but there, sitting next to her – a little too close – on the sofa, it would be damn easy to pretend that he was allowed to.

He settled eventually on a red pair of socks with pictures of R2-D2 on – one day he would make Bones watch Star Wars – and ten minutes later strolled out the door.

As he walked towards his government-issued gas-guzzler – the one she didn't like – his phone rang.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note**

**Right, so this is where the angst-monkey rears its ugly head. Think it will take me quite a bit of time to get Brennan in character (and am full of admiration for the large number of fics that manage it), but hope it's not too dire.**

**Disclaimer: Still not mine. HH owns all; graduate students own nothing but debt.**

Across town, Temperance Brennan awoke not to the sound of her alarm clock, but to the sound of a ringing phone.

Bleary-eyed, she reached for her mobile, which was positioned on her dresser and answered, sleepily. 'Brennan.'

Whilst she was not sufficiently awake to have actively considered the question as to who was on the line she was still, somehow, surprised not to hear Booth's voice.

'Doctor Brennan, this is Deputy Director Cullen from the FBI. I hope I didn't wake you.'

'Yes, you did,' she replied – bluntly as ever - 'but it isn't important.'

'Doctor Brennan, I'm afraid I need to talk to you about something rather urgent,' Cullen said.

Brennan's heart started racing immediately as she thought of her partner, tiredness replaced by sheer panic as a million scenarios – the ones that ran quite frequently through her nightmares – entered her head.

'Is – is Booth okay?' she stuttered, attempting to keep the emotion out of her voice.

'As far as I know,' Cullen answered, and Brennan felt a wave of relief flood course her body.

'Then why are you contacting me instead of him?'

'Dr Brennan, early this morning an FBI team in Maryland were contacted about a partially decomposed body that was found floating in the Potomac River. The body appears to be that of a male in his sixties. They haven't made much headway yet on figuring out the cause of death, except that he was dead before he entered the water.'

'Oh,' she said, unsure as to why what appeared to be a normal case merited such urgency. Or, for that matter, why he was calling her instead of Booth. 'Do you require Agent Booth and I to take the case?'

'Dr Brennan,' Cullen said flatly, pausing a while before continuing. 'Whilst there was no formal identification found with the body, a diabetic tag was found around the man's neck. The name on the tag read Joseph Booth.'

The panic that had abated earlier flooded back as Brennan heard the name. _A man in his sixties. Joseph Booth. _Booth's pain-stricken words from months before echoed through her mind. _If it hadn't been for my grandfather I might have killed myself as a child._

'Dr Brennan?' Cullen questioned gently in response to her silence.

Then the rational side of her brain kicked in. 'Joseph and Booth are both relatively high-frequency names,' she said, sighing in relief at the thought that this was, indeed, statistically unlikely to be the man that had ruined Booth's childhood. 'And in the absence of any other evidence there is really very little reason to suppose that this man is indeed Agent Booth's father.'

'I'm aware of that, Dr Brennan,' Cullen replied. 'And that's why we'd like Agent Booth to go down there and do a DNA test. If nothing else, it will enable us rule out the possibility that this man is indeed Booth's father.'

'Then why are you calling me rather than Booth?' Brennan asked, although she suspected that she already knew the answer.

'I'm aware that this is a very sensitive issue, Dr Brennan,' he said. 'And it is not one that I wish to spring upon him here in the office in front of his workmates. I know that the two of you are close, and I was hoping that you could get in touch with him before he arrives here, and let him know what the situation is.'

'You – you want me to tell him?' Brennan questioned. She couldn't think of anything she'd less like to do – the thought of hearing his voice crack, of seeing a host of different emotions break out across his face, was unbearable. And yet he was her partner. Her friend. And if the thought of telling him was horrid, the thought of someone else doing it was more so.

'Yes,' Cullen said softly. 'I think that that would be the best thing.'

'I apologise,' she said, attempting to return to a flat, professional tone, but not entirely succeeding. 'I will let him know immediately.'

'Thank you, Dr Brennan,' Cullen replied gently before hanging up the phone.

Brennan found herself shivering as the dread coursed through her body, and pulled the covers around her in an attempt to cocoon herself from the thought that she had to deliver news that would strike her partner – no, the man she loved – at his very core.

She tried to stop, to think rationally, but for once her emotions were too strong, and her thoughts too jumbled, to be overridden by logic. Fuzzy images flitted through her head. A young Booth – the one she'd seen in the picture of Hank's - taking the blame in order to protect Jared from an angry, drunken man with a large fist. A lost man, putting all his money on red 23 in order to make himself forget, among other things, the memories of his childhood. Hank Booth, asking her to be there for him, to hold him when he needed it.

And a body, bloated and distorted, floating face down in a river.

She wanted to tell him face to face – he deserved that –but if he'd left early, he'd be at the Hoover building before she'd have chance to catch him. She had no choice, She had to call him. She had to call him now.

Slowly, she looked down at the phone that she was clutching tightly in her hand, and pressed 1 on her speed dial.


End file.
